


Far, far sexier than Barnacle Boy

by tooswegforyouhaha



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: I like to think I'm funny, M/M, enough tags okay, for u horny little shits, huehuheuheuhuheu, i went back and put italics in, if i go to hell for this i expect cashton porn to be waiting for me, if u know what i mean, it has only been half proof-read, luke doesn't even get a name, oh and i apologize for the humor, okay, or a physical description really lol rip me, the muke is realllllll side tho, there's some boys who get some, this is most likely shit, ur damn welcome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-05-05 00:12:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5353571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tooswegforyouhaha/pseuds/tooswegforyouhaha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Calum loses his shirt in a bar, Michael fucks off to fuck Luke, and Ashton is apparently far, far sexier than Barnacle Boy.</p><p>(I wrote this because I'm in denial that I'm failing every class and have semester exams in a month lol r i p me)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Far, far sexier than Barnacle Boy

Let's make one thing _very_ clear: Calum doesn't dance.

He doesn't, and he's been perfectly content with that for a clear majority of his life, so why why _why_ is he currently considering joining the clearly-drunk occupants of the dance floor?

" _Calum!_ "

Calum turns and Michael is there, like _right the fuck there_ , all up in his personal space. Their eyelashes are almost tangling, what the _fuck_ \- and then there's the realization that Michael has splashed all of his drink all over Calum's shirt. Calum whines, he can feel gravity pulling the liquid down into the waistband of his boxers, and he doesn't relish the feeling.

"Oh my god, Calum-" Michael is trying not to laugh, but Calum's wearing a white shirt, and Calum pretty much hates Michael right now. He's going to kill him, slowly and painfully, tie him up and make him watch while Calum pours each of his bottles of hair dye down the kitchen sink. Calum glares at Michael, silently daring him to finish his sentence.

 _Go on. I dare you_.

Michael opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, and then takes a sip from Calum's drink. _Asshole_.

But Calum can feel a grin tugging at the corner of his lips, and he peels off his shirt, shaking his head at his horrible, truly horrible, best friend, who's openly laughing at him now. 

"Give me my damn drink, Clifford." Calum says exasperatedly, and Michael lets him have the rest of it, which, granted, isn't much, but Calum was getting ready to slap him upside the face with his alcohol-soaked shirt, and Michael probably sensed it. Michael is cool like that, knowing what Calum's thinking without him having said anything. Maybe that's a side-affect of being best friends for a fuckton of time. He could google it, see if it's scientifically proven. Reader's Digest has got to have done some shitty study like that by now. 

_Fuck, he's so drunk._

And so he finishes his drink, because somewhere in his subconscious he decided that since he was already drunk, he might as fucking well drink more, right? Wonderful idea.

A girl bumps into him, tottering on her high heels, and he gets a dirty look from the boy she's clutching the hand of. Michael snorts from beside him, and suddenly Calum realizes that he's standing at the bar next to his best friend like a cliche dad from an Adam Sandler comedy, and he's not that old, _dammit_ , and so he drags Michael onto the dance floor with him, because if Calum's going to look like an idiot, Michael's going to look like one too. 

The crowd pulses, and he moves with it, and the heat coming from the crushing press of too many bodies packed into a too-small room is stifling. He's not dancing, not really, but neither is Michael, whose eyes have immediately been drawn to a tall blond with rather nice legs. He's going to be abandoned in a matter of minutes, like the asshole that Michael is, and it is not fair that Michael is getting laid and Calum's not, because it is a scientifically proven fact that Calum's ass is The Best Ever©, even if Michael's dick is bigger than his. 

Michael grabs Calum's shoulders and leans in to shout, "Don't look so poetry-major moody! Shake what your mom gave you!" before clapping him on the back and pushing through the crowd, no doubt to find Gorgeous Legs Blond. Calum blinks, not aware of a) what "poetry-major moody" looks like, or b) that he was being it. But Michael's advice rings true, and so he begins to move.

He actually recognizes the song, it's a rap song with a fast, driving bass line, and he wishes his hips were less damn awkward. _I need another drink_. 

The DJ is yelling something into the microphone, but there's so much static that Calum doesn't know what the fuck he's saying, and so he ignores him. _Great plan, Calum._

The song melts into something else, and oh- _oh._ It's red, colored red with lust, and Calum doesn't feel awkward anymore. The people are crushing in closer, but somehow he has plenty of room to move, rolling his hips and raking his hands through his hair because he forgot to put product in it, _dammit_ , and as a result it keeps flopping into his eyes. 

He can feel eyes on him, has for a while now, which is to be expected, Calum guesses, giving that he's _not wearing a fucking shirt_. He rolls his shoulders and looks around, trying to pinpoint at least a couple of the sources, because, you know. Getting laid. His eyes drag across the crowd, and his breath gets punched out of his lungs.

_Fuck..._

The boy is watching him from behind the bar, arms crossed tightly across his chest, biceps bulging. His curly hair is held back by a black and white bandanna, and he is, simply put, gorgeous.

_Jawline strong enough to sit on._

Calum flushes at the sudden thought, and he's staring. Fuck, he's staring, his cock is chubbing up in his skin-tight jeans, and this boy is still fucking watching him. Calum can feel his gaze burning into his bare skin, and if he was sane at all he would be disturbed at the fact that a stranger has been ogling his half-naked body from afar.

But he's proud of his body, has spent countless hours at the gym for it, and the boy is so, so, so gorgeous, and Calum _needs to get fucking laid_ , preferably by this Greek god, and so he lets out a shaky breath, slowing down the rotation of his hips into a tantalizing grind.

It's easier than Calum thought it would be, to _tease_ , his hands sliding up and down his body, and he thumbs over one of his nipples, letting out a soft groan and letting his head fall back at the sensation. He peeks up through his eyelashes to see if Bicep Boy is still watching, but his view of the bar has been obstructed by an overweight man sipping at something through a cocktail straw.

Calum groans, and in a burst of sudden courage, starts shoving his way towards the bar, a little angry and a lot of turned on and curious to know who the _fuck_ that boy is, and _who_ , exactly, set his standards so high.

He's pretty breathless by the time he gets there, thanks in part to the elbow he received so graciously to the stomach, and the feeling only gets worse when he catches a glimpse of that damn bandanna.

In the middle of Calum trying to think of something other than "fuck me" to say, a hand is wrapping around his wrist and jerking, pulling him behind the bar. His head snaps up to see Bicep Boy.

"What are you doing?" Calum blurts, and Bicep Boy looks amused. He slides his hand up Calum's arm slowly, gliding it lightly across his shoulder before wrapping it around the back of his neck so he can tug Calum closer. Their noses brush and Calum's about to faint. He's about to faint, just fucking fall on the sticky floor. Michael will most likely put DICK as the cause of death at his funeral, and _jesus fuck he won't be wrong_ "What am I doing?" Bicep Boy murmurs, his warm breath ghosting across Calum's skin.

"I am working. Pouring drinks, the usual, and _hating_ every second of it. Hating it, because there's a boy on the dance floor, the most gorgeous boy I've ever seen, and he _doesn't have a fucking shirt on_ ," His voice drops to a growl, and Calum's gasping, his pulse thundering through his ear and he has to strain to hear the boy's next words. "He doesn't have a shirt on, and he's dancing like he's asking to get fucked, _begging_ , and then this boy, oh this beautiful boy, he starts to tease.. Like he knows very damn well I can't do a thing about it here... Can't come out from behind the bar. _That's_ what I was doing, princess."

Calum's achingly hard, his cock straining against the confines of his skinny jeans, and he licks at his lips, his mouth suddenly very dry. Bicep Boy's - _he needs a name, dammit_ \- eyes flick down to his mouth, and he cocks his head to the side, as if wondering what Calum's lips taste like.

"Shots." Calum literally hates himself. "My mouth probably tastes like shots, and I want to know your name, your biceps are very nice, oh god they're _so_ nice, and I've been calling you Bicep Boy in my head but that's not an actual name it's like Barnacle Boy from Spongebob and you're far, far sexier than he is, jesus, you're hot." It all spills out in a rush and Bicep Boy blinks once, twice, and then his lips are curling up into a wicked smirk that is going to be the _death_ of Calum, if the way his cock twitches in response in anything to go by.

"Well, I must say. I've never been called far, far sexier than Barnacle Boy." The words roll off his tongue dripping with sarcasm and Calum wants to die.

Calum wants to literally die. He can feel the flush creeping over his skin and Bicep Boy is laughing at Calum now, but his eyes are sparkling, and he is _so fucking beautiful_ that maybe Calum won't die after all.

"My name is Ashton, and I want to fuck you." 

And Calum chokes because _what_. He chokes, and Bicep Boy, no, Ashton - _yes!_ \- is grinning again.

Finally Calum manages to splutter out, "I'm Calum, and I would like that very much."

And Ashton's grin widens.

**Author's Note:**

> Since I know that all y'all most likely hate me right now, lol, I would like to say that no fear, there will be a part two. There is a very, very good chance at it, anyways. I would say 9 out of 10 eggplants.
> 
> Please leave a comment (or kudos!) if you are interested/would read a second part. I might not write one if I don't see enough interest.


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